


Affection

by MaidenofIron157



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Exhaustion, Gen, Injury, Just a ton of cuddling, M/M, That's really all it is, Tony Stark-centric, Well except for Loki's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaidenofIron157/pseuds/MaidenofIron157
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Tony Stark's exhaustion gets the better of him, and the one time someone decides it's time he use an actual bed.</p><p>Bonuses: Hulk, Tony's 'Bots, and Loki, as well as a chapter explaining the aftermaths of each cuddling session</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruce

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually way longer than I thought it would be when I first wrote it
> 
> My bad
> 
> *ALSO: For anyone who wanted to see a full-blown team puppy pile, you can go to my other story _I'm Just Tired_ , as I'm sure it will please anyone who was hoping for a puppy pile chapter. :) *

The first time it happens, he was in The Lab. And it was The Lab, capital letters were necessary in describing it in its entirety. He and Bruce's lab. The Lab. So of course, Bruce was there, working on something or other (Tony hadn't really been paying attention at the time, something to do with the cells of that armored centipede they had fought last week and a microscope). Tony had been working on around thirty-eight hours of non-stop caffeine and doughnuts because sleep was for the weak, and Bruce was around the same time bracket. Tony was yawning into his fist and his head was lolling to the side with the effort to keep it up and his eyes kept blinking sporadically because when he was sleep-deprived he was _sleep-deprived_ , but he was still stubborn enough to keep working through the haze of exhaustion because there was work and the work needed to be done.

That train of thought held up for as long as it was until Bruce pulled away from his microscope, took off his glasses, rubbed at his eyes, and cracked his back. He looked tired, too. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual, and his hair was greasy and unkempt. He'd been down here just as long as Tony, and not seeing the light of day and surviving solely on glazed pastries and caffeine filled mugs for that long wasn't exactly healthy, but y'know. He's Tony Stark, and Tony Stark doesn't let something as trivial as a good night's sleep and three meals a day get in the way of his work. It simply wasn't done.

But Bruce was Bruce and Bruce wasn't Tony Stark, which sucked, but was still true. And Tony liked Bruce just the way he was, giant green rage monster and all, and because Tony liked him he wasn't fond of him being as self-destructive as Tony was in the name of science. Tony could spend a week down in his workshop or The Lab on a maximum of nine hours sleep, running on pure force of will and seven different cups of coffee at a time, and he'd come out of it victorious at creating something but still not completely sure what that something was until his brain had caught up with his body and determined just what, exactly, he had been working on. It was a routine he'd had worked out since he was fourteen, and one Pepper absolutely loathed. Bruce was not allowed to fall into the same routine. It wasn't good form.

So when he'd seen Bruce sit up and crack his back and rub at his eyes, Tony had stopped welding… whatever it was he'd been welding and pushed his goggles onto his forehead to shoot him a look. "You're not gonna pass out on me, are you, Big Guy?" Because that was as sincere and as heartfelt as he ever really got around anyone, despite the overwhelming sense of _wrong_ he felt at trying to keep Bruce down here when he was tired just because he wanted someone other than JARVIS to talk to and it was selfish, and he knew it, and Bruce knew it, so the other scientist took it in stride.

Bruce chuckled slightly, folding his glasses and tucking them into his shirt pocket. "I might if I don't get some sleep soon. I'll just sleep on the couch."

Ah, the couch. It was the comfy, black leather couch they had in The Lab, mostly there so one of them could crash on it if their work was too volatile to leave it entirely alone or if they had honestly just passed out from exhaustion (okay, so the last one was just Tony, but he could not be held accountable for that). Bruce usually slept on it if his legs dragged too much and he couldn't reach the elevator from his station with all the tech and mechanical shit in the way and on the floor, so he'd just collapse face-first onto the couch and start snoring before his head hit the cushion.

It seemed like it was one of those nights (or was it morning? He'd have to ask JARVIS…).

Tony watched Bruce stumble over to the piece of furniture and wow he had not realized just how fucking tired he was until he'd actually stopped working. It was always like that. His exhaustion would creep up on him and as soon as he paused in what he was doing – BAM. Fatigue would roll over him in waves, and he'd usually end up passing out at his desk and drooling all over his schematics. So the exhaustion he felt now was not a good sign, if the sudden blurriness of his vision had anything to do with it.

He saw Bruce topple onto the couch out of the corner of his eye – face-first, just like usual – and faintly heard the soft snores start from where his face was pressed into the fabric. The first thing he thinks is _couch_ , which, in that state of mind, usually means _bed_ , which in turn means _sleep_ , which his body is all about right now. The second thing his brain picks up is _Bruce_ , which means _science bro_ , which his body is also all about right now. It connects _Bruce_ with _friend_ and _friend_ with _safe_ and _warm_ , which – again – his body is telling him are totally good things. The third thing he takes note of is that he's moving and that his feet are actually taking him somewhere, which is kind of surprising because his legs usually go numb when he's this goddamned tired, so he supposes it's his body's way of telling him that it needs to get to the bed to sleep and that Bruce is warm and his body is all about warmth because he's wearing a tank top and believe it or not it's actually kind of chilly in The Lab. A science lab of this caliber cannot simply be "warm" – it's full of state-of-the-art tech and equipment, and having that stuff overheat is dangerous as hell, so chilly it is. But because of that chill Tony's body has decided to go rogue on his slower-than-usual brain processor and has automatically pinpointed Bruce as a source of warmth, so Bruce it is.

Tony ends up wedging himself in between the back cushions and Bruce's back, slinging an arm over his midsection and nuzzling his nose into the nape of his neck because Bruce _is_ warm and _why hadn't he thought of this sooner?_

He doesn't even remember telling JARVIS to dim the lights and make sure everything was secure and not about to explode or self-destruct, but apparently the AI got the memo anyway, because the lights did dim and the constant humming in The Lab wasn't nearly as loud as before. It was a blessed relief. He clocked out a few seconds later.


	2. Clint

The second time it happens was completely accidental. Tony was drunk on exhaustion (again), and had actually been able to make it to the elevator, for once. Bruce had just kind of grunted at him from where he had been wrapped up in his own work when he'd left, and Tony had collapsed into the elevator car and leant against one of the walls and just kind of melted into the cool metal and let it throb against his side for a little as the lift buzzed and rose through the floors. He couldn’t remember pressing one of the buttons on the panel, but it was clear that he had, otherwise JARVIS would have automatically brought him to his own floor.

As it was, he had either (in his sleep-deprived state) selected a button on the panel without really making sure it was his floor, or JARVIS had decided to spite him for something he couldn’t remember doing and had taken his revenge. He was leaning towards the former; JARVIS would usually wait until he was at least sixty percent coherent to strike. Catching him off-guard when he was already paying less attention than usual was bad form for the AI, and Tony should know, he had programmed him, after all (to which, he still didn’t really know where the sarcasm and rebellious streak had come from. He blamed Rhodey).

Tony had stumbled out of the elevator car, nearly tripped over the plush carpet covering the floor, righted himself, blinked to get his brain to focus on the _wrongness_ of the fact that there was fucking plush carpet covering the floor, and then cursed. Loudly. If any situation had called for swearing, it would be his very situation. His room didn’t have plush carpet. Which, logically, meant that he was _not in his room_. It could also mean Natasha could be ready to shoot a tranq in his coronary right at that moment, which was not something he wanted to think about, ever, because his room was the only one that didn’t have plush carpeting, and that pretty much meant he was screwed four ways to hell.

“Stark?”

Well, that wasn’t Natasha’s voice. That was a mildly good sign that he was not going to be maimed in the very near future.

It did make him yelp, though. And flinch back a few steps, and nearly trip over the goddamn carpet, again. Fucking carpet. Fucking sudden-ass voice. He had some dignity, dammit.

Tony blinked again, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to get them to adjust to the darkness of the space quicker to no avail. There were vague, grayish blobs of shadow in the vast expanse of blackness in front of him, only faintly let up by the blue light escaping the reactor, but he couldn’t really properly make out what they were. His exhaustion was making everything fuzzier than usual, and he couldn’t even pinpoint whose voice it was who had spoken. So he just grunted and hoped they got the message. 'The message' being 'I don’t know who you are or why I’m here but I’m working on about two brain cells right now and it would be nice if I could crash on your couch'.

Luckily, the voice seemed to understand Stark-speak. He’d have to get them a fruit basket later.

Tony felt two hands grip his arms from behind, firmly steering him forward into the blackness that was the room’s soul. He blinked a few times more to try to clear his cloudy vision, but the only thing he really saw was the single wall to his right, illuminated by his chest. It wasn’t really a wall, per se, more like a line of ceiling-to-floor, bulletproof, two-way windows that overlooked Manhattan Island in just the right way that all the specks of light he could see behind it were just that – specks of light. He knew it was really just the New York nightlife on the prowl again, windows lit up and glowing from the high-rises nearby, but Tony just saw specks.

It was Clint’s room.

Before he could really process that thought, he was being lifted off the ground and hoisted into something flexible and soft and hard as hell to stay still in. He wiggled and squirmed, trying to get comfortable in the small amount of space available in the goddamn hammock Clint had set up in place of a bed, because damn, could he be less like a bird? Clint had asked for one in exchange for the mattress Tony was going to install, and Tony had delivered (while insulted, just a bit, because his ego was malfunctioning and Clint was so fucking _sincere_ about the whole thing and how could Tony stay mad at him about that?). It was custom-built and everything, because Tony was a giver, and he would spend as much as necessary to get his bird-friend the best hammock ever.

That didn’t mean he’d ever wanted to be in it. Hammocks were evil things. The last time he’d been in one of them, one of the clasps that were supposed to keep you off the ground had decided to be rebellious and bruise his spine for the next few days. It hadn’t been an enjoyable experience.

It was cozy, though, to be honest, if he ignored the constant moving and the feeling that he was about to fall out of it and fall flat on his face. There was a thick, fluffy blanket draped over it on the bottom of it so that the holes in the fabric weren’t overly noticeable, and it made it feel more homey and warm. Pillows surrounded him on all sides, worn and well-used. He could smell his own expensive cologne on the one near his arm, and Natasha’s perfume on the one under his head, Bruce’s earthy chamomile scent on the one below his hip, Thor’s strawberry-PopTart-and-ozone odor on the one by his thigh, and the faint wisp of Steve’s vanilla shampoo on the one under his feet from where his legs had to be bent to fit in the cramped space. Something clicked in Tony’s head that hey there’s my missing pillow, but he didn’t really investigate it further. The combination of the scents of all of his teammates was more comforting than the actual hammock, and his fatigue washed back over him in full-force. It made him feel safe, and he couldn’t even bring himself to wonder why.

Then Tony was cursing under his breath as the thing fucking wobbled again, and he hung onto the edge that he could reach with all of his might so he wouldn’t fall off. The next thing he knew, Clint was pushing at his side, making him scoot over as much as he could without moving the damn thing all that much (which was fucking impossible). The dirty blond nestled next to him in the cocoon of pillows, snatching the other blanket and tugging it over the top of them both. It was still warm from when Clint had thrown it off to get down and see who the hell was on his floor at this time of night, which was a plus.

Clint was rearranging Tony’s limbs so they were chest to back, and it was a show of how exhausted Tony really was that he just yawned and didn’t complain about how he was the little spoon. His ego would scream at him in the morning, but it was comfy and Clint was a source of warmth and didn’t say anything. He just locked him arms around his midsection, tangled their legs together, rested his chin on his shoulder, and maybe made a few shadow puppets in the light cast from the arc reactor just because he could, and because Tony was too tired to bat his hands away.

The genius tried to blink to stay awake, which worked for all of about two seconds before he was out like a light and nuzzling the pillow beneath his head with his cheek.


	3. Thor

The third time it happened it wasn’t even Tony’s fault. So, really, it was also accidental, but let’s just make it clear that Tony was in no way, shape, or form responsible for the third time. He couldn’t even be placed partial blame for it, that was how much it wasn’t his fault (of course, Natasha would give him that Look she always gave him when he did something completely stupid because hey – he’s Tony Stark, and Russian assassins’ Looks have got _nothing_ on an angry Pepper Potts’ – and Fury would gripe and fume and try to knock some sense into him to no avail, because there was no sense to be knocked anywhere, but he couldn’t tease Fury for trying, which was a shame).

It had happened during another battle, where the Avengers were called to save the day, blah blah blah, protect the city, blah blah blah. Tony hadn’t been paying much attention, as there wasn’t much to pay attention to. Just Fury briefing them on the new giant lizard-monster-things that had sprouted up from the sewers (and wouldn’t that just smell fucking wonderful?) and, hey, they were _leaking toxic acid all over New York City_. So yes, the Avengers needed to be called in while the S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel evacuated all the terrified civilians before one of the lizards decided it would be a good idea to eat one of them.

A normal Tuesday, really.

So, as he was wont to do, Tony had gone to get suited up while everyone else prepared their weapons and made sure their uniforms were functioning correctly, rearranging it so it wouldn’t chafe. Fury had decided to break out the new erosion-resistant under-armor for everyone who _wasn’t_ a giant green rage monster or a demi-god, and even Tony had to wear the full-length body suit, which was lame and a little bit insulting. His own suit was _fucking fabulous_ , thank you very much. He didn’t need an erosion-resistant suit underneath the one made of a half-inch thick titanium-gold alloy, because he had already tested it against as many corrosive acids as he could without JARVIS deciding he was threatening his own safety. But it was protocol, and apparently they weren’t sure if the acid from the lizard-beasts was one the human race even knew about, and Fury would bench him if he didn’t wear it (“It’s just a fucking body suit, Stark, get over your ego or I’ll make you get over it!”), and Cap was giving him those half-puppy dog, half-assertive captain eyes. Tony never really stood a chance against the last one.

After they had all gotten suited up and had made it down to the area the lizard-things had managed to meander around to (which was only about a block in diameter, maybe a block and a half), it was clear the creatures weren’t exactly hostile. They reached up to about Tony’s hip area on all fours, and looked like komodo dragons that had gotten an upgrade. They were also slimy. Really, really slimy. That was what the acid was, since Tony could see it dripping down onto the pavement and burning holes the size of his hand into the asphalt every time they walked. And it wasn’t even a walk, it was a freaking waddle. They _waddled_. Tony had to admit, if he got over the burning-everything-they-touch and the way their tongues hung out of their mouths like dogs (which, by the way, was not a sight he’d ever thought he’d see), he could definitely see himself keeping one of the things as a pet.

As they waddled, dripping acid that left potholes pretty much everywhere and would be a bitch to have to cover, they were sniffing everything they encountered like a puppy when someone new entered their house. The problem was, everything they sniffed would inevitably end up melting, which would upset them to the point of slamming their tails into the nearest possible object. It worked especially well with cars; there was a group of them around an upturned taxi, sniffing and exploring and pushing at it curiously. And yes, the taxi was, in fact, melting.

 _Okay_ , Tony thought, touching down as lightly as he could on an unaffected patch of street. His boots clunked and the whirring slowly died down as his thrusters cooled, but the noise still garnered a few curious looks and sniffs from the lizards. _Not exactly what I thought we’d be dealing with. Was kind of hoping for a bit more razzle-dazzle, actually, but Coulson would probably get a paperwork boner from how non-hostile these things are._

Tony could hear Thor laughing in that loud, boisterous Asgardian way he laughed, which was really more like a boom than a laugh. “My friends! These Midgardian creatures are most amusing!”

“Not amusing, Thor, dangerous.” And, yup, there’s Cap, all business and “for the greater good” tone in high gear through the com-link. “There’s acid… _everywhere_.” Which was true, but that didn’t mean he had to ruin Tony’s fun at watching the things squirm and wag their tails when they found something new to investigate. Man, it was like watching a bunch of puppies just learning how to walk.

“Aw, come on, Cap,” Tony said, drawing out the whiny syllable with practiced ease. “Look at them! They’re fucking waddling!”

“I have to agree, Captain,” Natasha sounded over the com from where she was positioned near the landed Quinjet, making sure the things didn’t get to close. Tony could see her jumping at the creatures who were brave enough or curious enough to wander over to her, and could see them scurry off before she shot them. He knew she knew that firing a shot at these things would only stress them out, and probably make everything that much worse in the long-run. So intimidation it was. He smothered a snort.

Natasha continued, “They aren’t completely hostile. They’re more confused over their surroundings than they are actively trying to destroy it.”

“Do you think there’s a way to contain them?” Steve pressured. Tony spared him a glance, and could see the minute relaxing of his shoulders and slowing of his heartbeat, which meant he was relieved he and the team wouldn’t have to fight the lizards outright. “Bruce?”

Bruce was still in the Quinjet, decidedly not giant and green and using his StarkTablet to overlook the lizards’ chemical and biological structure, but his voice sounded over the com, reassuring and calm. “Aside from their size and the corrosive acid they seem to be emitting, their mindset looks to be that of a young dog.”

 _I knew it_.

“You mean there are a shit ton of puppy-lizards destroying everything they touch without realizing they’re _destroying everything they touch_?” Clint barked out, snickering to himself. Tony had given him a lift up to his perch, and the genius could tell the archer was reveling in the chance to see all of it play out from his nest.

“Yes.” Bruce didn’t have the right to sound that amused.

Steve gave one of his long-suffering sighs. “Alright. Do you know how we could contain them? They’re destroying a lot of property.”

“Not sure,” Bruce replied, “But the acid doesn’t seem to be working on rubber.”

Tony tuned in then, and looked around at all of the potholes the lizards had created. Where the taxi had been were, in its place, its four tires, and there were a few of the lizards gnawing on the rubber like they were teething. And, well, it was _something_. “So, should we, what – cage them in a giant rubber playpen?”

“Well, I –“ Bruce’s opinion was (rudely) cut off by their Captain.

“Er, Tony?” Steve sounded pained. The brunet turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow even though he knew Steve couldn’t see it, because knowing something Steve didn’t was always a cause for celebration in Stark Kingdom (which meant he had celebrations a lot, Steve was fucking _clueless_ ). But now Steve looked pale and tense, and he was pointing to Tony like he was about to tackle him. Which, okay, would definitely not be good for his back.

“What?” Tony asked, genuinely a little bit puzzled, which didn’t happen often. If Steve was just gonna tackle him, he should’ve done it by now, but he wasn’t moving. His limbs seemed locked in place and his jaw was working to try to get something out. Tony considered the high-risk chance of walking over to Steve and slapping the back of his head to get some sense back into him (mostly for kicks, because Coulson would personally castrate him, the sadist) until he felt it.

It wasn’t a terrible sensation, at first. More of that static-like tingly feeling you get in your limbs after they’ve gone numb and you have to wake them up, just about an inch below his ribcage, but then it progressively got worse. The tingling turned sharp, like a hard pinch or bee sting, spreading from about a centimeter in diameter to two inches in three seconds. Tony winced, taking a step back and then hissing as more pain shot through his torso from the area, throbbing heavily and making the pain that much worse. Then the bee sting feeling turned into a constant, pressuring stab of agony, burning his flesh and it _just kept spreading_. It was crawling up his ribcage and down his side, and Tony couldn’t keep track of how large it had gotten because all that he thought was note-worthy about it was that it _fucking hurt_. He gasped for breath, hearing the rest of the team barking into their coms but not being able to register what was being said, the HUD blaring alert signals and danger warnings in front of his eyes, and even though his vision was blurry, he could still make out what the color red was, and the color red was not good. The air recycling system in the suit didn’t feel like it was getting enough oxygen through, and Tony couldn’t tell if it was because he was light-headed or it was because his lungs were becoming affected. And wow, was he light-headed. He could feel the brewing migraine at the base of his skull and behind his eye sockets, and wasn’t that just the icing on the cake?

He barely managed to get out a choked, _“Shit!”_ before his knees buckled on him and he collapsed, groping for the side that was on fire. It felt like his skin was being torn off and then the muscle that was left was being scorched with a match, and it wasn’t stopping. He could feel it getting dangerously close to the reactor, and he didn’t even notice getting turned onto his back and having the armor ripped off of him. He was panting heavily, clenching his jaw and grating his teeth through the massive migraine taking over his brain, trying to grapple at the armor chunks being torn away, but even he knew he was too weak from the pain to actually try. As his faceplate was removed, being thrown somewhere else and probably dented beyond repair, Tony blinked rapidly, trying to keep the black out of his line of sight for as long as he possibly could. Dropping unconscious at that point would probably leave him in a life or death situation, which he did not want to be a part of in any way, shape, or form.

He could see a head in front of him, blurry as shit and little to no recognizable features. Except, y’know, _they_ were the one ripping his armor off of him and pressing a long, thick red cloth to his wound and _Jesus Christ_ that hurt like a _motherfucker_ , and now there was pain everywhere and his rapid heartbeat and blinding migraine were doing nothing to help with that, but he could tell it was Thor. There was an angry, accented voice snarling above him, and he could hear someone in the background shouting desperately, but he couldn’t register what words were being said, so he just laid there and took all of it with the stride only Tony Stark could take in these circumstances. He was biting his lip so hard the skin had broken twice, and he could taste the copper on his tongue, and he could feel the bile threatening to rise at the back of his throat, and damn if his eyes didn’t just want to pop out of his head and roll to safety.

Tony wasn’t completely coherent, zoning in and out, hearing white noise in one ear and too much in the other, vision getting darker with the more time that went by. The next thing he really focused on was the arm under his shoulders and another under his knees, hefting him into the air and off the asphalt. The cranial, pelvic, and torso areas on his suit had already been completely torn off in favor of Thor’s cape, tied taut around his midsection and ribcage, mopping up the blood that was sluggishly oozing from his wound and attempting to slow down the erosion of his skin to at least some affect. It was working, at least a little. The wound seemed to have stopped spreading, even if it may just be for the time being. In his half-unconscious, half-aware state of mind, Tony chalked the bastardizing pain up to one of the lizard-beasts getting too close for comfort and him not noticing until the acid had already eaten away his suit. Pretty certain the team could tell Fury those erosion-resistant body suits were _total bullshit_.

Then Thor was fucking _flying_ , and yeah, okay, sure, that would be cool if Tony didn’t feel like he was about to hurl up everything he’d eaten in the last two days and his side was going to destroy the arc reactor beyond repair. So yeah, flying was definitely _not okay_. He groaned, swallowed thickly, clamped down on his gag reflex, and huddled as close to Thor’s chestplate as he could. The Asgardian armor was sleek and warm against his cheek, but it may have just been because Tony was so fucking out of it and his fever was through the roof. Wind was ripping through his sweat dampened hair, bangs plastered to his too-pale forehead. His side was throbbing unbearably, and Tony sucked in a breath through his teeth every time the pain would spike, but it was toning down minutely, nanosecond by nanosecond. He felt Thor rearrange him against his chest, rumbling in that way he did and using the new position to comb his fingers through Tony’s clumped hair. He was massaging his scalp, and Tony couldn’t help but let out a grunt at the feel. It was taking his mind off of the mind-numbing pain the rest of his body was in the midst of, at the least, which was a plus, and it was fighting back his migraine, which was also a plus.

He’s passed out before Thor had touched down on the Helicarrier.


	4. Phil

The fourth time it happened, Tony didn’t know what to think of it.

He was just coming to, mind foggy and disoriented, beeping noises and the sound of rustling paper muddled and distant to his ears. His eyelids were crusted shut, he could feel the pressure of well-applied bandages encasing his torso, and the equally firm pressure of a mattress under him, the sheet he was laying on starchy and rough to the touch. His train of thought was slow, for once, but for him that usually meant it was just running at the speed normal people kept, and Tony knew from the heaviness of his limbs that they had him on the Good Meds. There was a breathing mask on his face, and the absence of a breathing tube was a good sign if any, so he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, leisurely, then cautiously, gradually opened his eyes.

The room, though overly sterile as every hospital room was, had dim lights, which was what Tony found so odd about it. Usually, whenever Tony was in a hospital, or the Medical Wing of the Helicarrier, which was more likely, the lights were cranked up to “Blind Your Retinas” and Tony would hiss and retreat back into the sheets like a good little hermit. But now, the lights were dim, and his eyes (though his vision was still a little blurry) had a much easier time adjusting and focusing in on things.

Like the fact there was a glass of water with a bendy straw in it held up to his face.

Tony’s brow furrowed, because if there was something in front of his face, that something was usually attached to a different something, and there was nothing like curiosity to get the ball rolling for a shit ton of questions. Namely, why he was in Medical. But first…

He followed the glass to the hand that was holding it, and then the arm that the hand was connected to, and then the body and, in turn, the face that owned the arm. He should’ve known it was Coulson from the fact that the arm was covered by well-pressed Armani, but beggars can’t be choosers, and his brain was running a bit slow, which was always one of the more irritating side effects of being stuffed full of the Good Meds. He blinked at the agent, confused as to why _he_ was here, in his well-pressed Armani three-piece, sitting cross-legged in one of those undignified plastic hospital chairs at _his_ bedside, holding a glass of water with a bendy straw out to _him_ to drink. It was certainly a confusing set of circumstances, and Tony definitely planned on asking, but his throat _was_ dry, and talking with a dry throat was bad form and would no doubt scrape at his vocal chords in ways they should not be scraped. So, water it is.

Tony struggled to sit up, pushing with arms too weak to support his weight, and eventually ended up falling back down with a huff, brain dizzy with exertion. He blinked to clear his vision, watching Coulson set the glass down on the bedside table and set the files and reports he’d had in his lap on the seat as he stood. He then moved forward, wordlessly slipping an arm beneath Tony’s shoulders and helping him sit upright. He rearranged the flat, SHIELD-issue pillows in just the right way that they supported him enough to stay in that position. Tony let out a small sigh in relief, and then Coulson was unhooking his breathing mask, easing it off his face so that he had time to get used to the change in air quality.

 _Then_ he picked the glass back up and held the bendy straw out for him.

Tony gratefully took the offered straw, sipping slowly so that he wouldn’t upset his stomach or make himself gag. Once the glass was at least half empty, Tony leant back, letting out another sigh and making sure his throat was okay to talk, even if he knew his voice was going to be hoarse. Coulson moved back, placing the glass back on the table and settling back into his seat, flipping through mission reports and noting things with a pen that had shown up seemingly out of thin air. Another secret superpower to chalk up in the “Super-Agent” list.

The genius cleared his throat, and the only recognition it got from the agent was a twitch of his eyebrow, which was his way of saying that he was listening intently. “How long?” were the first words out of his mouth, and, true to form, his voice sounded like a gaggle of cats had decided his vocal chords were scratching posts. It tickled the back of his esophagus, and Tony let out a weak cough despite his attempt to hold it back.

“Four and a half days,” Coulson reported, voice softer than it should have been, considering the fact Tony had landed himself in Medical. Again. He was pretty sure it was the second time in as many months. Coulson shouldn’t be going easy on him and doing paperwork, he should be giving him that “I am so disappointed in you” and “Are you really that fucking dense, Stark” combo look he had perfected the second they’d met and threatening to tase him into unconsciousness.

Tony gave him a look that Coulson resolutely ignored. “ _Why_ was I out for four and a half days?”

Coulson just flipped to another piece of paperwork and continued skimming over the report. “Because the acid burned through a lot of your skin, and nearly fatally damaged the arc reactor.”

Always right to the point, wasn’t he. Wait, acid…? Tony’s brow furrowed in thought, flicking back through his memory portfolio for what on Earth Coulson could be talking about. He remembered giant lizards that acted like puppies, Steve freaking out a little, blinding agony erupting from his side – and ooh, yeah, that feeling he could remember. It was a dull ache, now, softened by the pain meds they had him on and treated properly with sterile equipment and bandages and such, but oh, could he still remember that pain. He recalled Thor being there in the midst of it somewhere, ripping off chunks of his armor.

Tony cast Coulson a sharp glance. “Did you get all my armor?”

Coulson nodded once, curtly. Tony pressed, “Are you sure?” Coulson looked up at him, a tight half-smile on his face. It was his way of reassurance. “Yes, Tony, we’re sure.”

The billionaire relaxed incrementally, mostly because Coulson only ever called him ‘Tony’ when he was being completely and honestly serious, so he knew to take his word. Then, when the agent returned to his paperwork, he asked, “Why are you here?” and damn if that didn’t sound confrontational. He mentally kicked himself for it.

But Coulson just let out a small chuckle that was more like a huff than an actual laugh, stood back up, picked the glass up once more, and snatched up the two white pills next to it. “I’m your babysitter until you can leave. The doctors are keeping you for another week, mainly to make sure the burn heals the way it should and that the acid doesn’t have any other side effects.” He held out the pills, and Tony reached up a hand (which should not have taken as much effort as it did) to pop them in his mouth. The agent then held out the glass and Tony took a few more sips to wash the chalky pills down, grimacing at the taste. Coulson sat back down and pulled the chair closer so he could lean against the mattress to write on, speed-reading through the paperwork in a way Tony had yet to master.

Before Tony’s brain could fully comprehend what his body was doing, his hand had clasped onto Coulson’s from where it was absently tapping his fingers against the bed spread. The older man barely spared it a glance before turning back to his work, but he did squeeze back reassuringly. Tony’s shoulder’s slumped in relief, and he blinked rapidly as the drugs started taking effect, calmly lulling him back to sleep. The last thing he felt was the steady pressure of Coulson’s thumb making circles on the back of his hand.


	5. Natasha

The fifth time it happened was mainly coincidental and not accidental. It had been his first day back at the Tower after he’d been released from Medical, and all he’d wanted to do was sleep for a week and maybe eat a few boxes of pizza and chug down a dozen mugs of coffee, and the fact that he couldn’t do all three of those things at once had been the only reason he’d pouted (mostly at Steve, because _he_ was the spoilsport who’d told him it defied the laws of physics and that Tony needed his rest, anyway) and taken the elevator up to the penthouse to pass out on his fabulous, fabulous bed. Compared to the piece of concrete he’d been stuck in for over a week, the large, cozy mattress in his room felt like he was laying on a cloud. He’d fallen asleep before his head had hit the pillow, snoring contentedly and not caring that he was wrinkling his suit beyond repair. His burn, thankfully, had begun scabbing and healing, and it itched like no one’s business, but the pain was still a dull ache, and his chest was still wrapped tightly in bandages, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care about the details until after his nap. It had taken more energy than he’d thought it would to get back to the Tower, even with the team’s help and the pain meds. Everything was sore from not using any of his limbs for a while, but he figured it would only take a few days of sleeping like the dead and taking the meds (no matter how much he didn’t want to, because they tasted _fucking horrible_ ) until he was back on his feet and annoying the shit out of everyone.

The only problem was, he’d woken up a few hours later, while it was still dark and not nearly late enough in the morning for him to even consider getting out of his bed, breathing heavily and heart beating rapidly beneath the reactor. His skin was covered in a cold sweat, hair plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, hands trembling from where they were fisted tightly in his sheets. The remnants of his nightmare were still floating around in his head, images from it still lingering at the forefront of his mind, flashing in front of his eyes whenever he blinked. It made Tony grimace, despite their already dissipating strength, hiding at the back of his mind to torment him another day. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and gradually loosened his death grip on his sheets. His fingers were stiff and red.

He needed a drink.

Still trying to control his breathing, which was always something of a chore when it came to waking up with a nightmare, he sat up slowly, making sure the blood didn’t rush to his head and make him nauseous. Maybe he should skip that drink; no way alcohol would do anything good for his stomach right now. But he _was_ a little hungry… He’d passed out on an empty stomach, because SHIELD-issue food was not only tasteless, but also bland, and Tony always secretly thought Fury was bribing the Med-staff to poison his food whenever he was stuck in Medical. He’d managed to convince Thor that Burger King was chock-full of all the essential nutrients an almost-middle-aged superhero – such as himself – could ask for, so the demi-god had been official fast-fooder for Tony while he was on bed rest. It helped that Thor felt a shit ton of guilt for the whole “ripping apart the Iron Man suit” thing, even if he did look like a scolded puppy when they brought up the ripping apart in question, and that Tony had gotten over it when he was told that they’d found and brought back all the pieces to his workshop for repair once he was home free. Clint had helped by buying KFC and Chinese food and sneaking it in for him through the vents, if only because it was on Tony’s credit card and the archer could stick around and mooch off the leftovers or whatever he’d bought for himself. He was a greedy little bastard and Tony loved him for it.

Still. On the topic of food. Tony needed some – preferably as soon as possible, if the groans his stomach was giving him was anything to go by. That required going to the kitchen, which was the floor down, which meant getting into the elevator because stairs were for the weak. And hell, Tony was feeling pretty damn weak right about now, but that was no excuse to use the _stairs_. He was a man of the future, and men of the future did not simply _use stairs_. It was blasphemy. So, elevator it was, which was just as bad if not worse. The lurching it would make would only upset his poor, poor stomach further, but maybe if he told JARVIS to try and make it go as slowly and smoothly as possible…

He hauled himself off his mattress reluctantly, patting the rumpled covers in apology, before turning and making his way out of his room and towards the elevator. The private one – the one that only he, Pepper, and Rhodey could access (and, on one memorable occasion, Coulson, the sneaky devil) – went through all one-hundred-something stories of the Tower (because Tony didn’t bother keeping count, it was _his_ Tower, after all, even if Pepper owned twelve percent and ran over ninety percent of it), while the public elevator only ran through every story excluding the penthouse, roof, and Iron Man landing pad. It kept out all unwanted guests, which was nice (it didn’t stop Clint from climbing through the vents to camp out on the roof, but it still helped). Hopefully, JARVIS would be inclined to help his darling, beloved creator out instead of be a total prick about him getting hurt. Again.

Thankfully, after stumbling through the dimly lit dark to the elevator, JARVIS seemed to seek pity on him, and the ride to the floor below was smooth enough that Tony didn’t feel like puking out anything he’d managed to digest, which was a plus. What wasn’t a plus was walking out of the elevator to lights that were too bright for his eyes and made him nauseous all over again. Maybe he should skip that food and just crash on the couch…

Except that couch had someone _on it_ , he could _see them_ , which was not okay, ever, because Tony was nauseous and he needed to bury his face in one of the throw pillows and sleep away the impending migraine, preferably for a year or so. He threw his arm over his eyes, groaning loudly in disdain at the lights (because fuck those lights) and stumbling across the room to the couch like a drunkard to his car. The TV was on – he could hear it – but the noise was low enough that it barely put a dent on Tony’s hypersensitive eardrums. He made it to the couch, collapsing on it as gracefully as he could to stave off his roiling stomach and pounding headache, legs hanging off the armrest and running a hand through his hair and trying to calm himself. He’d forgotten someone was next to him until they took over the hair-combing, and he nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise, but that just made his head hurt more. He groaned again, curling in on himself, and the other person tugged him forward so his head rested in their lap and his legs were curled up to his chest. It was definitely Natasha, if the faint smell of perfume and badass was to be trusted. He wondered for a moment why the hell Natasha was even up before deciding she was nocturnal and didn’t sleep, because those were the conclusions his mind came up with when he was in pain.

Tony squirmed, trying to wriggle off her lap because _he had his head in her lap_ and that was _fucking terrifying_ , but Natasha had a grip of steel and Tony hated her for it. She kept his head where it was against his will, and let him bury his face in her stomach even though Tony had never meant for that to happen, _ever_ , but apparently his body was making the decisions now, and it had determined that his terrifying teammate’s stomach was a comfortable place to nuzzle. Tony Stark didn’t _nuzzle_. He was going to think about how suicidal his body was in the morning.

And then she was _massaging his temples_ , and, yeah, that felt _fucking wonderful_ , but it was still terrifying because it was _Natasha_ and Natasha had a thing about physical contact. Maybe she was sleep walking. Or something. Or maybe she’d woken up from a nightmare, too. He could believe that. He was just starting to get into the nitty-gritty and wonder if it was actually Natasha or if it was a clone or Loki in disguise (and wouldn’t that just be fan-fucking-tastic) when his body decided that thinking was overrated and told him sleeping was way more fun. He supposed if Natasha wasn’t going to let him back up and his stomach was telling him food was totally out of the picture, he might as well sleep everything off and forget this ever happened. 

And _damn_ , did he sleep.


	6. Steve

The sixth time it happened, it was all Steve’s fault.

It was a few days after the incident with Natasha (and yeah, he was definitely never thinking about that ever again, thank you very much), and Tony was heading into the kitchen for some more coffee because you could never have enough coffee in life, and he was running on empty down in the workshop. So coffee it was, which meant going to the kitchen, which sucked. Going to the kitchen meant interacting with the general populace of the tower, and even though he was fairly certain it was past midnight, that didn’t mean no one would be up scrounging around for a snack, and he wanted no part in talking to any of them until he was semi-coherent. He could at least form half-intelligent sentences and hold a one-sided conversation when he was semi-coherent. When he was going through coffee withdrawal… well, it wasn’t pretty, to say the least.

So. Coffee. Kitchen. Avoid everyone in the vicinity. Good plan.

Blinking drowsily as he exited the elevator, because there was nothing like good old insomnia to make him work himself to exhaustion at night, he shuffled in the vague area of the kitchen and cursed under his breath at the dim light he could see emanating from it. Someone was awake enough to have JARVIS turn the lights on for them; usually, when sneaking about for some late-night food runs, the lights would stay off – mainly because it stung the hell out of everyone’s eyes, but also because Clint and Natasha were ruthless bastards and liked to scare them out of their skins if they got there first. Darkness was the key to spying, after all. However, Tony supposed that since the lights were on, the two weren’t present and preparing to pounce on him from the cupboards or wherever they usually hid themselves. It also, unfortunately, meant that someone was still awake. Dammit.

The genius sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wiping grease and oil on it in the process, which he ignored. He needed _coffee_ , preferably as soon as possible, and if that meant fighting the fucking Kraken he was going to do it. He moved into the room as casually as he could, which meant he nearly tripped over thin air, which, to be honest, wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. He honed in on the coffee machine, in all of its unbridled glory, because it was a fucking beautiful thing and Tony had never been happier in his life than to see it just across the kitchen. He made a bee-line for it and ignored everything else in the room.

Or at least, he did, until someone decided to step in front of him and make him slam into their (decidedly fabulous) brick-wall like chest. They didn’t even budge at the rather hard contact, which Tony felt a slight twinge of jealousy for, but he crushed it like a grape and stumbled back away from the (amazing) torso he’d run head-first into. And it was head-first, his nose had squashed against the (ridiculously toned) pecs when he’d hit. The wall of muscle caught his wrist before Tony could fall flat on his ass and hauled him back onto his feet with an ease that Tony wanted to scowl at, because he may have been short (a little), but he wasn’t that light. They had no right to lift him about like a rag doll.

Except now he could see who the wall of muscle was and that it was Steve and his stupid, boyish smile (because fuck that smile, it made women swoon and babies giggle) who had set him back onto his feet and was still holding his wrist. Tony furrowed his eyebrows at him, because what the hell was Steve doing up? He was America’s golden boy, and America’s golden boy wasn’t supposed to get up in the middle of the night for snacks, it defeated the purpose of telling children not to do it. The giant idiot just looked at him, as if Tony knew what he was saying just by a look – and yeah, usually he would, he was a fucking _genius_ , thank you, but he kind of needed _coffee_ before he could really bring himself to make any Sherlockian deductions, thank you very much.

Steve seemed to get the memo. Tony supposed he was starting to take a page out of Pepper’s book and learn Starkenese. The soldier had the gall to _chuckle_ at him (people don’t just _chuckle_ at Tony Stark, _Tony Stark_ did the chuckling, dammit!) before he dropped his wrist and instead placed both of his hands on his shoulders to turn him around.

Away from the coffee machine.

Tony couldn’t hold back the petulant whine, struggling as hard as he could to get free from Steve’s grip (which, in his fatigued state and against Steve’s inhuman strength, did absolutely nothing). “Steeeeeeve…”

He just chuckled again. Tony shot him a glare over his shoulder that burned with the scorn of a thousand suns and promised revenge. Steve just quirked a little grin at him (and _no_ , it wasn’t cute, no matter how much his stomach twisted) and marched him from the kitchen into the common area and back towards the elevator, JARVIS obediently switching the lights off without being told. “Traitor,” Tony hissed, and JARVIS didn’t say a word even though Tony knew he damn well heard him. Snippy English bastard.

“Tony,” Steve said, and his voice was soft, but it still felt a little loud in the silence of the common area. Tony just pouted and dug his heels into the floor, determined to make this as difficult as possible for Steve and get back to his beloved coffee and his work. If he couldn’t get to sleep, he’d do something useful with the extra time he had. But the blond just sighed and before Tony could really fully process exactly what was happening his feet _weren’t on the ground anymore_ and he was flailing in Steve’s arms. Well, flailing was a relative term. It was more like half-heartedly pushing and wriggling in an attempt to free himself, because Steve was _bridal carrying him_ , which was in no way any part of what Tony had in mind to ever happen, ever. It just got worse when JARVIS opened the elevator doors for them and Steve just waltzed right into the lift. Tony scowled, mostly to the air, because scowling at the ceiling was pointless, but he was sure the AI got the message. Steve just ignored him and pressed the floor button to his own suite, and Tony wanted to feel slighted that Steve could hold him with one arm, but his body had decided to betray him and relax a little, which he took as a personal affront. How dare his body – he had work to do, it can’t be relaxing! Least of all in _Captain America’s_ arms!

Steve seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil, but Tony knew damn well how skilled he was at faking obliviousness. Bastard. He’d find a way to get back at him, he would, oh, how he would. But he couldn’t really think as straightly as he wanted to with his body deciding to shut itself down and his brain starting to consider the idea. It wasn’t fair. Tony just wanted _coffee_.

When the elevator doors opened, Steve stepped into his room with _purpose_. Tony would have appreciated it more if he wasn’t still being carried by the guy. He’d stopped struggling, but had crossed his arms and was glaring at Steve, who was ignoring it with a grace Tony respected, at least a little. The blond carried him into the bedroom, and Tony had the split-second _oh shit_ alarm go off in his head, but Steve just dumped him on the mattress and moved around to the other side to hop on, himself. Tony just looked at him, because it was dark and the only light they had was coming from the reactor, and even that wasn’t much. The black Aerosmith shirt he was wearing was thick and dulled a lot of the light, but he could see Steve roll his eyes and felt him shuffle over to him. He rearranged Tony and the blanket that had been folded neatly underneath them so that they were under it, instead, and Steve pulled him close to his chest. They were sharing a pillow, despite the three that were on the bed, and the arc reactor was humming against Steve’s ribcage. Tony could feel his heartbeat. It was… strangely comforting.

Tony’s body didn’t have the will or energy to try to get up and untangle himself from the (extremely cozy) Steve-Blanket cocoon it was a part of. He just sighed, annoyed, and tucked himself in, resting his cheek against Steve’s collarbone. The man hummed, running his fingertips lightly down his spine, and Tony’s brain started to relax more and more.

It took a while to actually fall asleep, but between the abnormal warmth coming off of Steve in waves and the snugness of the blankets around them, Tony’s insomnia decided he’d had enough for one day. He was sure Steve didn’t say anything, but between the quiet humming and the comforting prods to his back via a certain super soldier, he didn’t really need to. It was calm enough to quell the raging thoughts in his head and actually let him… sleep.


	7. Hulk

The seventh time it happened was definitely all Tony’s fault, even if he hadn’t done anything on purpose. Then again, it might as well have been Doom’s fault, since he started the whole thing in the first place.

They’d been called out to fight another batch of Doombots (something that happened far too often for anyone’s liking). Tony had been running on a maximum of two hours sleep and fifteen cups of cold coffee for three days, having been too busy building new gear for the team and for SHIELD to bother with such trivial things as sleep and food. Bruce had actually come down to drag him up to his bedroom to get something resembling a good amount of slumber when the alarm started blaring through the Tower. Tony had just managed to shrug the physicist off with a tired grin and step into the suit to head out and kick some ass. He’s carefully ignored the suspicious look Bruce had given him in the meantime.

He’d been the first one to get to the battle site – Central Park, because apparently Doom had something against trees – and had started in on blasting the flying robots out of the sky as soon as he’d gotten there. He’d opened up the com-channel for the rest of the team, who had been coming in on the Quinjet in three minutes, which hadn’t been fast enough, if Tony had anything to say about it.

“What do you mean, three minutes?!” he shouted, swerving out of the way of an attempted hit and blasting at the robot that had dared to try. “I needed you here five minutes ago!”

“We know, we’re trying!” Steve spoke for the rest of them, tone urgent, and the HUD in his faceplate flickered when he narrowly escaped being decapitated by a laser.

“This thing only goes so fast, y’know!” Clint told him, and Tony rolled his eyes. He winced at the pain that flashed through his skull at the movement, skimming the tops of the trees and allowing JARVIS to pinpoint where the nearest enemy targets were.

“Yeah, well, maybe – shit!” He was tackled from behind, nearly being weighed down out of the air, and barrel-rolled to throw the heap of metal onto another approaching group of them. He panted to the worried shouts of the team over the com, “Relax, no biggie, I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine, Tony,” Bruce said firmly, and the genius ignored him in lieu of shooting at another team of robots.

This went on for another two and a half minutes before his vision had started to go blurry from an abrupt and intense wave of exhaustion for half a second, and one of them had been quick enough to notice. The next thing he knew, he’d been blasted in the gut and had gone flying against a tree hard enough to splinter the wood. While he’d been busy trying not to pass out or let himself get too dizzy, the Doombots had already managed to rush him, and he was being beaten within an inch of his life by at least twenty or so robots. The suit had begun to dent and cave, and he could feel the metal start to dig into his skin. The pain had woken him up slightly, enough to order JARVIS to relocate all of the excess power in the suit to the reactor and fire at will. He’d ignored the AI’s concerned remarks and the team’s harried demands of a call-in in favor or blinking sluggishly at the dangerously blinking HUD in front of him, lines red and flashing and blurring together all at once.

The chest canon went off and the Doombots were blown back, and a circle of charred metal and sparking wires were left where some of them had been directly in the line of fire. Others who had managed to avoid the blast or were not as mortally wounded as their counterparts continued to wail on him like he was a punching bag, and he groaned unhappily at the blood he could feel dripping from his nose and temple.

Hearing the furious roar of their resident jolly green giant through the crackling of his helmet made him smile painfully, even if it was wiped right off his face when a particularly strong hit caught his faceplate. The HUD flickered pitifully, JARVIS’ voice wobbling in and out of focus, before the blows being wailed on him finally stopped.

It was eerily quiet for a few seconds, to Tony, inside the suit, his breaths shallow and irregular from how the chestplate had been bent inward and was compressing his ribcage. He was trying to keep himself from passing out, and if the grey beginning to cloud his vision said anything about it, he wasn’t doing a very good job. The combination of lack of sleep and lack of food was actually starting to seem like a bad idea. He could hear the faint sounds of roars and crashes and shouts outside of the helmet, but with the com-link down, he couldn’t decipher exactly what anyone was saying.

Then, he was picked up, quite gently, although he let out an uncomfortable hiss as his aching limbs were jostled in the air. There was a sad-sounding grunt, and then his faceplate was pried from his helmet, and Tony squinted painfully against the brightness he saw afterwards. Above of him, he could see a huge blur of green, and if he focused hard enough, he could see the worried expression in place of the usual angry one on Hulk’s face. He couldn’t help but smile in relief at the sight, and he wanted to pat the giant’s arm reassuringly, but from the throbbing pain emanating from all of his limbs, he was sure he’d be unable to move for quite a while.

“Tin Man okay?” Hulk asked, and his voice was quieter than usual, too.

Tony couldn’t nod, so instead he rasped out, “Yeah, bud… Tot’ly… tot’ly fine.” God, even that had felt like a challenge.

His head was starting to spin, and he closed his eyes. Hulk told him, in the same firm tone Bruce had used beforehand, on the Quinjet, “Not fine. Sleep.”

Tony had clocked out before he could mull over those words. His body was not going to be happy with him later, and neither was Bruce.


	8. The 'Bots

The eighth time it happened, Tony hadn’t expected it.

He’d been having more nightmares than usual, and had wallowed away the increasingly sleepless nights in the workshop like he always did. He’d had three projects running at the same time; upgrades to Steve’s uniform after the old one had failed to protect him completely from gunfire, fixing the malfunctions in the com-units that had been affected by the EMP blast last week, and tinkering with the nanochips in the new StarkPhones to get them on the market sooner for Pepper.

By the time his vision had started to go fuzzy in the dim lighting of the room and he’d reached for his mug of coffee only to find it empty, Dummy had wheeled over to him, toting a blanket carefully clamped in his four fingers. He gave Tony a concerned beep, nudging at his grease-stained arm and raising the blanket pointedly.

The genius rolled his eyes at the over-protective ‘bot, and pushed half-heartedly at his metal arm. “I’m not tired, Dummy, quit being a mother hen.” But even his voice sounded exhausted and rough, and he had to rub at his eyes to keep from closing them.

Dummy whirred at him impatiently, and continued prodding at his arm. Tony just kept pushing at him until the ‘bot resorted to desperate measures. He backed up to turn his arm and click worriedly at the other two ‘bots in residence, who perked up at their older brother’s calling, as though they hadn’t been eavesdropping on the entire spectacle from the beginning. Tony made a face at them when they rolled over to help, crossing his arms and telling them, “I feel betrayed.”

You seemed to make the robotic equivalent of a snort, moving forward and grabbing a clawful of his shirt, tugging hard enough to make the cloth start to tear.

Tony smacked at the metal arm, standing to get more leverage, only to be pushed forward by Butterfingers and directed towards the ratty cot on the edge of the workshop. He threw his head over his shoulder to glare at the persistent ‘bot, and he swatted at the arm that kept pushing him. “Let me go, you brutes. I have work. JARVIS! Call off the hounds!”

“I believe they are trying to get you to sleep, sir,” the AI said instead, and did he sound amused? “You have currently been working for 46 hours and twenty-seven minutes straight, and have only eaten three energy bars, half a box of pizza, and fourteen cups of coffee in that time. If I may, sir, I firmly believe that such behavior is unhealthy, and would likely lead to medical difficulties in the future is kept up at such a pace.”

“Yeah, well, no one asked for your opinion,” he grumbled, planting his heels on the floor in an attempt to slow Butterfingers down to no avail. To the group of overly concerned ‘bots, he had to stifle a yawn in his fist and blink rapidly to say, “I’m donating you all to a community high school. No take backs this time.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Who made you sass-master, JARVIS?” Tony snarked, only to be soon pushed onto the cot. Dummy carefully laid the blanket over him, and it was starchy and rough but strangely warm. Tony couldn’t help but squirm when Dummy tried to tuck him in and made him a blanket burrito, and he glared tiredly at their happy beeps. “I am so done with you.”

You pat his stomach consolingly before rolling away to his charging station with Butterfingers in tow. Dummy nudged his cheek before rolling off as well, and JARVIS dimmed the lights on his own accord. “Traitor,” he hissed at the AI, wriggling half-heartedly in his cocoon when his fatigue made itself even more known. He really was tired, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t argue.

It also, apparently, didn’t mean JARVIS would argue back. Traitor. Tony was going to recode his programming if this kind of blatant favoritism didn’t stop.

Almost against his will, his exhaustion became more and more pronounced. The comforting whirs and clicks of the machinery around him combined with his bone-deep weariness pulled him to sleep in no time at all.


	9. Loki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki is somewhat OOC in this chapter, as he isn’t as vicious or hostile than he was in any of the movie adaptations. There also is no actual snuggling, so don't be disappointed

The ninth time it happened, it made Tony want to write some kind of book called “Everyone Needs to Stop Being Affectionate With Tony Stark - The Memoir of a Genius”. Because really, it was beginning to get out of hand.

It was just after breakfast when they got the alarm. Tony had been woken up by Thor and his overly-loud booming that somehow accounted for a voice after actually managing to make it to his bedroom the night before, and had stumbled down into the communal kitchen to reap the benefits of Steve’s fabulous cooking abilities. The super soldier had a way with making pancakes that seemed to melt in your mouth. Tony assumed it had something to do with him being from the forties.

The alarm began blaring directly after Steve and Bruce had started picking up the dishes to put in the dishwasher. They had all been fairly annoyed that the comfortable atmosphere they had come to appreciate had been so thoroughly destroyed so early in the morning, but they had suited up and headed out all the same.

Coulson briefed them on the way over in the Quinjet; “It’s Loki.” Tony rolled his eyes at the news. “He’s… somehow managed to transform Times Square into candy.”

Clint whistled, “Like a real life ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’, huh?”

“Something like that,” Coulson admitted, “We haven’t managed to pinpoint his magical signature yet, since all of the candy has it as well. He’s there, we just need you to get close enough to pinpoint it, find him, and make him reverse the spell.”

Natasha spoke up from the copilot’s seat, telling them, “In the meantime, the children seem to be enjoying it.”

Peering out the windows available on the Quinjet, it was clear that the approaching Times Square was currently swarmed with young children and the frazzled parents that were trying to keep them from eating anything. The street looking like it was made of peppermint, and the cars had been gummified. The buildings were made of gingerbread, frosting and sour gumdrops included, and the windows were made of sugar glass. Street signs and street lights were crafted out of pretzel, crosswalks and fire hydrants molded from chocolate, dark and white alike. Needless to say, it was a child’s paradise.

“Hot damn,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll be honest – that looks really, really good.”

“You’re not eating any of it, Tony,” Steve told him, and he pouted at him.

“Aw, come on!” he whined, “You have to admit, that looks pretty damn impressive.”

“You just ate,” Steve reasoned.

“And you don’t know what that stuff could do to your stomach,” Bruce said, being the voice of science, as always. “It could be poisoned, or when Loki reverses the spell, everything could revert back into metal, and you’ll get an infection.”

Tony sighed, “Fine,” and leant back in his seat, securing his helmet as the latch opened to allow them exit. He jumped out, powering his thrusters midair and curling off to go search the rooftops for the notorious trickster.

He heard the cheers of “Captain America!” and “Thor!” over the com when Steve and the god in question touched down, and he grinned to himself. He and Hulk were equally adored by kids, along with Clint occasionally (something the archer took full advantage of, namely by rubbing it in Coulson’s face and carrying around tiny little fans on his shoulders when they went out for PR duty), whereas Natasha tended to stick to the shadows than deal with children. She never turned down an autograph from an adoring little girl when she was approached, though.

Listening to Steve tell the gathered children in front of him to not eat any of the candy was, in fact, a little heart-breaking, but after the blond told them that they would certainly get tummy aches afterward they were easily dissuaded. Nothing said ‘behave’ like a knowledgeable Captain America. Tony snorted to himself from where he was hovering over one of the buildings, waving to any of the kids who saw him.

At that point, Bruce, who was still stationed within the now parked Quinjet (considering the situation wasn’t dangerous enough to let the Other Guy out and that they didn’t know how the big guy would take to an edible street) spoke up over the com. “There he is.”

“What? Where?” Clint asked from where he was hitching a ride from Thor to his perch.

“He’s in one of the buildings, at the corner,” Bruce recited, no doubt reading from his tablet. “On the floor under the roof.”

“I got this,” Tony announced, and began weaving to and from the four different buildings Bruce had pointed out. He was a little wary about whether the gingerbread would hold up under the suit’s weight, but it appeared sturdy enough, and didn’t so much as bend or crack when he touched down on any of the roofs. Even then, the insides of the buildings were combinations of different candies – nougat and caramel and chocolate and giant sprinkles made up the desks and chairs and computers, and even the workers in the buildings seemed less than impressed. Some of them were still working, even, which he found silently hilarious. Finding the sorcerer after asking a bored looking receptionist was fairly simple; he hadn’t been hiding, after all. Quite the opposite, actually.

When Tony walked into the office Loki was apparently ‘occupying’, he hadn’t expected to see the man with his feet propped up on the chocolate chip cookie desk and typing away at a vanilla wafer laptop. The original user of the office was tied up with licorice ropes on the taffy sofa, and that Tony had expected, but not the whole ‘casual ruler of New York’ look Loki was going for.

The god looked up from his typing, and raised an eyebrow at Tony, who had crossed his arms in much a similar manner as a disappointed parent did to their child. “You’re early,” he drawled.

“I’m early?” Tony scoffed, “So says the supposedly ‘dark and angsty’ god of mischief.”

“Well, yes, that’s exactly what I said,” Loki agreed, giving him a sharp smile. “I didn’t expect you so soon, though. I assumed you wouldn’t be able to track my signal so quickly. As you would say, my bad.”

“We learned a thing or two the last time you came around,” Tony explained, walking further into the room to make an attempt to apprehend him. The user of the office eyed him as he walked, no doubt more annoyed with the whole situation than frightened. “By the way – candy? Do you know the amount of children we had to prevent from getting sugar highs?”

Loki let out a noncommittal hum, typing something else before closing it and swinging his feet from the desktop, wiping the crumbs from his armor as he made his way back over to Tony. With a snap of his fingers, the office user was released from his binds, and Tony rolled his eyes as the god practically swaggered from the office, but followed after him, all the same, unwilling to let him out of his sight.

“Did you find him?” Steve’s voice spoke from the com.

“Yep,” Tony confirmed, popping the ‘p’ as he spoke. He grabbed Loki’s elbow, tugging him back to the stairwell that led to the roof. “Not a scratch on either of us, you’ll be pleased to know.”

“Good.” And Steve did sound relieved. “Bring him out here as quickly as you can. Thor’s getting nervous, and Natasha’s ready to knock him out.”

Tony stifled a snicker, and solidified his hold on the trickster when they reached the roof. “So,” he addressed him. “Any particular reason you decided to turn Times Square into a kid’s paradise?”

“I was bored,” Loki admitted with a shrug. “It’s also nice to bother you all once in a while. You all know I’ll just escape and wreak havoc again eventually, anyway. I do need something to bide my time.” He snapped his fingers again and the laptop vanished.

“In the morning? Are you insane? No one likes being awake this early,” Tony complained, preparing to take off.

Loki rolled his eyes, and clapped his hand on Tony’s shoulder, temporarily halting his thrusters. He eyed his faceplate. “Yes, I know,” he said, “Which is why I’m doing this.” He raised his other hand, tapping his pointer finger to the front of his faceplate. Green smoke exploded in front of him, seeping through the cracks in his armor that weren’t even there, and he stumbled back, sputtering as he breathed it in. It smelt like peppermint, and made him drowsy almost immediately.

He passed out before he could actually manage to think about the consequences of him being unconscious.


	10. The Aftermaths

“Tony.”

The billionaire groaned into the crook of his arm from where it was acting as a pillow. He was lying on his stomach, limbs splayed out this way and that, and he was comfortable in a way he hadn’t been for quite some time. Well, whenever he was trying to sleep, anyway.

“Tony.”

He grumbled, irritated, and curled up with his back to the voice. Stupid voice. How dare it try and wake him up. He had been having a really good dream, you know. Sweet, glorious algebra, he’s so sorry for abandoning you…

Then that voice decided it would be a fabulous idea to poke him directly between his shoulder blades, and he lurched up with an undignified squawk, flailing wildly. He managed to fall off the surface he’d been sleeping on to slam into the ground beneath him, and he winced, rolling over onto his back. Rubbing the gunk from his eyes, nearly slapping himself with how uncoordinated his still-tired limbs were, and squinted blearily up at the smiling curly-haired bundle of science that had woken him up in the first place.

He turned that squint into a glare that wasn’t as harsh as he wanted it to be. “What the fuck,” he deadpanned, voice hoarse with sleep, still trying to process the situation in his memory banks. He remembered nearly passing out on his experiment, seeing Bruce collapse on the couch, stumbling over to cuddle…

Oh, yeah, he’d spooned him, hadn’t he?

The physicist’s calm smile turned into a reminiscent smirk, and he held out a hand that Tony grudgingly took. The man hauled him to his feet, and the billionaire stumbled to keep his balance, still rubbing at his eyes. “You fell asleep on me,” Bruce told him, tone playful, and Tony felt proud of the fact that Bruce could sound playful now, and not just guarded. “Literally. I had to wiggle out from under you. You’re quite clingy when you sleep.”

“Yeah, well…” But he didn’t explain further, too busy wobbling towards the doors that led to the elevator to bother talking about his snugglebug tendencies. He knew he got affectionate when he slept; it was one of the reasons he had a body pillow in his room. Of course, those things didn’t wake up when he squeezed the ever-loving fuck out of it, but still. “I require coffee, Bruce. You will bring me coffee, or you will bring me death.”

“That’s not the way the quote goes, Tony,” Bruce said lightly, but followed all the same, if the footsteps he could hear behind him said anything about it.

“Quote, schmote – you woke me up, we’re getting coffee,” Tony demanded, and yeah, he sounded childish, but who cared? Bruce certainly didn’t care; hell, he could be just as childish when he wanted to, so there.

Bruce chuckled, and locked his arm with his at the elbow to lead him along so his knees wouldn’t fail on him. The rest of his body didn’t seem to comprehend the fact that he was awake yet, so it was still trying to get back to sleep. He’d teach it a thing or two about not listening to him.

“Alright, Tony,” Bruce said, “We’ll get you your coffee.”

“Damn straight you will,” he grumbled, leaning on the physicist more than he probably should have. Not that either of them cared.

-

“Stark.”

 _No_ , was Tony's immediate thought. _Fuck you. Leave me alone_. Not that that ever seemed to work. So instead, he just grunted and burrowed further inside the nest of blankets and pillows he was tucked in.

The person just sighed, and Tony hoped against his better judgment that they were getting irritated and would leave him to his lonesome.

Not the case.

In fact, it was so far from the case that Tony couldn’t help but feel betrayed by the world as a whole because of it.

The person fucking dumped him out of where he was cozily bundled onto an equally soft surface, and Tony landed with a yelp, trying to stick his hands out to cushion his fall, but the warm blankets still wrapped in a cocoon around him prevented that. The person who had caused it snickered, and Tony huffed, wiggling in his attempts to roll over to see who had the gall to laugh at Tony Stark. He couldn’t move, not really, but that didn’t stop him from squirming wildly anyway.

The team’s resident archer stared back at him, smirking and holding his hands on his hips in that ‘greater than thou’ way he did after he won a Mario Kart competition. Except last Tony had checked, they hadn’t been in the middle of a Mario Kart competition, so Tony had no idea why he looked like that or where he even was. The billionaire had to wriggle around on his back to get at least some kind of awareness of his current situation, and he was nearly blinded by the harsh bright sunlight beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room. He hissed, blinking rapidly to clear his vision and hunching under the blankets still cocooned around him to hide. Clint just snickered again, the bastard.

Tony huffed, annoyed. “Ha ha, Barton. Mind telling me what I’m doing in your hell of a suite?”

“Sunlight isn’t hell, Stark, you’ve just been asleep too long,” he responded with a grin, “Besides, you were the one who crawled your way in here last night.”

Tony’s brow furrowed. “Really?” He thought back, rifling through his vast memory bank in an attempt to pinpoint just what he’d done last night. He vaguely recalled tinkering with the new Quinjet schematics, harping at Bruce a little, then stumbling into the elevator and passing out in a hammock that smelt really, really nice. Huh. Well then. “Oh yeah.” He shot him a glare. “You spooned me.”

“You didn’t argue, did you?” Clint told him, and lightly kicked his still blanket-covered thigh. “Now get up; Steve’s making breakfast, and we have to get there before Thor does if we want any of it.”

Tony rolled his eyes, struggling to free himself from his binds until he finally rolled out of them and onto the pile of pillows Clint had set up to cushion his fall. “He makes enough either way, idiot.”

“We’re down to our last carton of eggs.”

“What?! Since when?!”

\--

“Anthony.”

Tony groaned into the pillow his head was cushioned on. He was trying to go to sleep, for once in his life, and he was going to give a piece of his mind to whoever thought it would be a good idea to interrupt that.

“I have brought sustenance.”

Well, he might let them off with a light scolding…

With a grunt, Tony rolled over onto his back, eyeing the giant blond Asgardian puppy that stood at his bedside with confusion. That confusion lessened when he saw the heap of Burger King bags clutched in his arms. It was obvious Thor had come bearing gifts in an attempt to rectify something he’s done, and whether he’d broken the entertainment system again or had forgotten to take the wrapper off a pair of PopTarts before putting them in the toaster, Tony wasn’t sure. The poor thunder god was accident prone, even he could tell that.

“Hey, big guy,” he greeted pleasantly, and motioned to the empty plastic chair he was standing in front of. “Sit down, stay a while. Hand over the grub while you’re at it.” He made grabby hands for the bags the blond was holding.

Thor knitted his brow, puzzled at the Midgardian expression, but collapsed onto the chair, ignoring the painful squeak it gave out under his weight. He held out a bag to Tony, which he took gratefully, reaching inside to pull out a Whopper and a large box of fries. He was half-certain his mouth had started to water at the smell of food and grease. “Oh, Thor, buddy, I love you,” he said, unwrapping the paper from the burger and taking a large bite. He practically moaned at the taste, and yeah, it was unhealthy, but anything tasted like heaven compared to SHIELD Medical food.

The god gave him a small smile, and set the other bags in his lap to eat out of his own box of fries. He was still eerily silent, since his boisterous personality usually made him heard from up to three stories away. Something was up. Tony swallowed his mouthful and picked up the empty bag to wipe the grease from his goatee, before giving Thor a look. “What’s up with you? Did someone eat all the PopTarts again?”

Thor shook his head. “I…” He looked away. “… would like to apologize.”

Tony quirked an eyebrow. “You break something?”

Thor looked at him, confused. “You do not remember?”

Tony shrugged. “Coulson briefed me on the basics. I don’t know why you think I’m upset, but…”

“But I have ruined your armor,” Thor said sadly, “You should not be so quick to dismiss–“

“Thor,” Tony cut in, “Relax.” Thor quieted, listening with rapt attention, and Tony stifled a chuckle. “Yeah, you kind of destroyed it, but I do have others. Coulson told me the rest of the team picked up all the pieces, too, so I should be able to scrounge up something after I get out of here. Okay? Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

The god fidgeted, looking away again. He looked less tense, but he still had something eating at him. Tony held back a sigh. “What else?”

Thor ate a few more fries before he spoke next. “I… may have broken the microwave.”

\--

“Mr. Stark.”

Tony ignored the monotone of Agent Coulson in order to continue stretching his arms above his head. The stiff muscles popped, and he let out a relieved sigh as the tension was released from them. He shook them out, leaning back on his elbows to look at Coulson upside-down, grinning as the man gave him a blank look.

“Agent Coulson,” he began, “What a pleasure! So happy to see you, after you not being here for your babysitting duty. My, my, and I thought you were supposed to be the _responsible_ one. For shame.”

“I was here, Stark, you were merely incapacitated when I was present,” Coulson told him, moving forward and tapping his forehead sharply before sitting in the currently unoccupied visitors’ chair.

Tony made a face, sitting up properly and turning to give the agent a dirty look, rubbing at the sore spot on his forehead. “Now that was uncalled for.”

Coulson shrugged in response, shuffling the papers he held and whipping a pen from the inside of his suit jacket. _So that’s where he gets them!_ a small part of Tony’s brain rejoiced, but he stayed quiet in lieu of eyeing the papers curiously.

He was only curious for a few seconds before Coulson handed over the papers and the pen, pointing to the dotted lines he could see. “Release papers.”

Tony smirked gleefully, and began signing the papers with flourish. “Finally.”

If he saw the smaller smile on Coulson’s face afterwards, neither of them mentioned it.

\--

“гений.”

Tony groaned into the soft leather cushions beneath his face, pushing himself up slowly to squint and glare in the general direction of wherever the voice had come from.

Someone cupped his cheek from the side, and he flinched back in surprise, floundering against the back of the sofa. He frantically rubbed at his eyes to remove the crust and blinked them open, only to see Natasha staring back at him with a half-amused look on her face. Her hands were even on her hips, and if he knew anything about Natasha, that was bad news.

Tony felt his blood run cold, and he subconsciously curled in on himself. “Oh, god, what did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, Stark. For once,” the redhead told him, and did she sound _fond_? Oh god, did he break her? He broke her, didn’t he? “However, I do need you to get up.” That was so not a good sign.

“I – er –“ Tony averted his eyes. “Yeah, see, about that, whatever it is I don’t really think I can wedge dying in my schedule today–“

“I’m not going to kill you,” Natasha explained, “Or maim you, or stab you, or dismember you, or beat you until you’re purple.”

Tony stared at her, and he was certain the anxiety on his face was obvious, despite the just-rising sun beyond the living area’s windows. “See, now, look, you saying you’re not going to do that makes me absolutely certain that you’re going to do that–“

“Stark,” she interrupted, and Tony bit his tongue in case she decided to shut him up herself. “Relax.” Then she bent down to look him in the eye, and her eyes were more inquisitive than piercing this time, and it made him feel at least slightly more at ease. It _was_ Natasha they were talking about, though, so he just gave her a look. “You are exhausted. You will drink what I make you, and then you will go back to sleep.”

She stood back up to her full-height, and grabbed his wrist, tugging him up to his feet to pull him along to the kitchen nook at the edge of the room. Tony wanted to drag his feet, but refrained from doing so in case she decided to use one of the many knives in the kitchen to carry out her threats. She then sat him down on one of the stools at the island and turned back to the counter to gather together the necessary materials to cook… whatever it was she was cooking.

Tony furrowed his eyebrows in confusion at her back. “Wait, why are you here again? Are you paying me back for something that I can’t remember I did?” He put on a knowing expression, and smirked at her. “Oh, come on, you can tell me, I promise I won’t spill.”

He could practically see the eye-roll from the Russian before she said, “Something like that.” and continued stirring the pot of milk and melting chocolate over the stove, adding in spoonfuls of honey every few turns.

\--

Tony made muffled noises into the pillow under his head as he slowly came back to the land of the living, breathing in the faint scent of vanilla and soap from the pristine pillowcase before the rest of his body decided to wake up. It really didn’t want to wake up, but something had caught his subconscious attention, and if it wasn’t the end of the world or coffee he was going to flip his shit.

Sighing heavily, he rolled over, kicking at the covers wrapped around his legs like a cocoon, but they stuck like glue. He squeezed his eyes shut further, running a hand over his face and slapping his cheeks lightly to wake himself further before daring to blink them open. The light in the bedroom was dim enough that it didn’t hurt his oversensitive eyes, even though the bedroom was decidedly not his, if the cream colored walls and well-polished wooden furniture said anything about it. He pushed half-heartedly at the covers that had managed to trap his legs like a vice, eying the ajar door opposite the mattress curiously. He could smell the faint scent of frying bacon and sizzling pancakes emanating from the next room over, and his stomach rumbled gratefully at the thought of food after its near 24-hours of straight caffeine and energy bars in the workshop.

Mere seconds later, where Tony kept trying to remove his legs from the blankets to get to the food he so desperately craved, Steve’s head popped in from where the door was still ajar, smiling in that overly-kind American way he did. “You’re awake.” He sounded pleasantly surprised, and moved past the door to help him escape his binds.

Tony raised an eyebrow at him, and snorted at the “Kiss the Captain” red-white-and-blue apron he was wearing (a birthday gift from Tony himself, in return for the Iron Man hoodie Steve had gotten him for his own birthday, because there was nothing like cheesy gifts to establish a friendship), but allowed the blond to help him. “Uh, yeah, that would be why my eyes are open.” Steve just rolled his eyes and continued tugging at the sheets. He was soon free, and he sat up to stretch his back, sighing in relief at the pops of released tension in the muscles. He rolled his shoulders, hauling himself up off the bed to pad after Steve back into the kitchen of his suite, shaking himself awake while he walked.

And oh, yeah, Steve had made pancakes and bacon. He was a saint, Tony knew it. His stomach grumbled once again without his consent, and neither of them mentioned it, even though Tony could tell Steve was grinning to himself.

“So, Capsicle, what brings me to your lovely abode?” he asked the man instead, settling himself in one of the chairs at the round wooden table in the middle of Steve’s tiny homey kitchen to watch him work. “Did I finally manage to convince you to take that invitation for a day on the town?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at the soldier’s back, resting his cheek in his palm.

Steve just snorted, flipping the pancakes onto a plate. They were fairly big and golden brown, and looked just as delicious as they smelled. Tony felt his mouth start to water in spite of itself. “Believe it or not, no,” he began, “I had gotten up last night because I’d woken up earlier than usual, and had gone down to the communal kitchen to get some more oatmeal, because I was out up here. Then you stumbled in looking for more coffee, and you looked exhausted, so I brought you up here and we fell back asleep.”

Tony tutted, and told him, “Y’know, if anyone else had told me that they’d brought me to bed just to sleep, I would’ve laughed in their face. But you’re Steve, so that’s probably the only thing you’d ever be bringing me to bed for.”

Steve chuckled, and turned to set a full plate of food and a glass of orange juice in front of him. Tony made a face at the lack of coffee, but ignored that in favor of looking at the plate like it was a gift from god. It was piled high with syrup-soaked pancakes and dripping butter, three strips of bacon on the side, and Tony almost groaned as the smell hit him. He grappled for his fork and knife and dug in like a starved man, and Steve slid into the seat next to him with his even more highly piled plate.

Tony felt an arm slip around his shoulders, and he was pulled close into Steve’s side for a mere second, where the blond pressed a kiss to his no doubt disgustingly greasy hair. Then he was released and Steve dug into his own plate, ignoring Tony’s inquisitively scandalized look with precision. “Y’know, you shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” Steve mused, giving him a small smile, even though his eyes were sparkling with mischief. “What with me being a ‘pure and innocent mind from the forties’ and all.”

\--

The first time he woke up, he didn’t want to.

“Tony?”

Groaning, the genius in question tried to block out the worried voice in favor of keeping his eyes closed. According to his body, however, he needed to be awake right now, which totally wasn’t fair, because dammit he was tired.

Then his stomach growled as loud as it possibly could, and he scowled at the stifled snort that received. Blinking awake took effort, and the bright lights of the hospital room he was clearly stuck in made his head spin and his hunger disappear in lieu of nausea. He groaned again, turning toward the source of the voice, where the person decided to humor him and ran his fingers through his knotted hair. It felt like heaven, and he buried his face in the pillow at the feel of it, ignoring how the bruise on his cheek throbbed at the action.

“Tony, you need to get up,” the voice told him kindly.

Tony just mumbled out a swear or four. “Noooo,” he whined, dragging out the ‘oh’ as long as he could. His throat was screaming at him, but he had to explain to the voice that he didn’t want to wake up yet. He was just so exhausted…

“’M tired,” he pouted, “Don’ wan’ get up.”

“You have to,” the voice told him, “I have food.”

His stomach put up a vicious fight at the thought of eating, so he groaned again. “No food,” he grunted, “Sleep. Tired. Please?” He even sniffled to make his argument as potent as possible.

Luckily, the voice sighed in agreement. “Alright. But I’ll be here if you wake up again, okay?”

“’Kay,” he mumbled, and nuzzled back into the pillow. He fell back asleep almost instantly.

The second time he woke up, it was to a guilty looking Bruce Banner picking up the cooling bowl of Steve’s cure-all chicken soup from the bedside table.

Tony eyed him curiously, ignoring the pain blossoming across his chest when he realized he was off the meds, and put a hand over his stomach when it rumbled happily at the scent of the freshly made food. Bruce chuckled, stirring it mindlessly, too lost in thought to pay attention to anything else. Tony gave him a look. “Bruce.” His voice was raspy with disuse, so he cleared his dry throat in an attempt to make it sound less like he’d swallowed gravel. “Bruce.”

“Hm?” The physicist looked up from his lap, eyes clearing. “Oh.” He gave him a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry.” He set the bowl back on the tabletop, moving forward and helping set the pillows up so he could lean against them before he picked the soup up again.

“I don’t need you to feed me, you know,” Tony told him, although his frightfully weak voice belied how obvious the lie was. His limbs felt like dead weights, and even though he would never admit it, he would definitely need help being fed. He was just glad Clint wasn’t around to snark at him when he couldn’t snark back.

Bruce’s smile became slightly more genuine as he raised himself to sit on the edge of the rock-solid mattress, measuring out a spoonful. “I know.”

\--

“Sir?”

“Fucking – go away, JARVIS, I’m busy,” Tony stated to the AI, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the flat, stained pillow under his head in an attempt to get back to his fabulous dream. Algebra had decided to get together with science again, and the equations they were making together were so, so beautiful…

“Sir, you need to wake up.”

“I said go away, JARVIS,” he said again, tugging the rough blanket tighter around him.

There was a whir and a click, and he was poked hard in the small of his back. With a yelp, he startled himself into a sitting position, rubbing frantically at his eyes to get rid of any lingering drowsiness before glaring at Dummy, who sat perfectly innocent beside the cot. “Dummy, you little shit,” he said fondly, still a little irritated over being woken up. He threw the blanket at him, which only succeeded in making him twirl around happily, beeping pleasantly despite not being able to see. Tony shook his head at the ‘bot, swinging his legs over the side of the cot and stretching his arms high above his head. Rolling his neck and bending his back, he asked the AI, “So why did you wake me up again? Was there an alarm?”

“You would have heard the alarm, sir,” JARVIS told him, the underlying current of amusement painfully clear. “You have a nine o’clock appointment with Miss Potts today. It is currently 7:45.”

Tony sighed, running his hand over his face and scrubbing at the grime he found there like he’d be able to wipe it off. “Damn. That means I have to take a shower, doesn’t it.” It was more of a statement than a question. Dummy clicked in the way he did that Tony knew meant he was laughing, and he slapped the blanket on over his arm lightly to quiet him.

“It would be wise, sir.”

“Don’t get smart with me, JARVIS.”

\--

“Tony.”

A grunt.

“Tony, come on, you gotta get up.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, nuzzling happily into the warm lump he was half-laying on. The thing under his cheek bobbed up and down as it chuckled, and someone rubbed their thumb into his shoulder, digging into the coiled tendon there and pushing uncomfortably until it released and Tony groaned at the relief that spread from that one action. “Oh, god, do that again,” he begged.

“Maybe if you get up,” another voice joined in, and the bed they were on dipped under the weight of that person no doubt climbing on. “Come on, Tony, Nat’s actually cooking something. She doesn’t cook. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing here, no backsies, so you” – a poke to his side, where he yelped and tried to squirm away – “need” – a poke to the small of his back, and he may or may not have let out an undignified squawk at it, flailing as the person he was laying on curled his overly-muscular arms around him to prevent him from leaving – “to” – another poke to his side, and Tony flinched away when it tickled – “get” – another to his armpit, and Tony had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing – “up!” A final poke to both of his hips, and Tony writhed away from the treacherous hands as much as he could when he was being held hostage.

He wriggled onto his back, glaring fiercely up at Clint, who looked disgustingly pleased with his handiwork, and Bruce, who was grinning behind his hand, if the amusement sparkling in his eyes had anything to say about it. He elbowed Steve in the gut from where he was being held, and the soldier merely huffed, pressing a quick kiss to his temple before sitting up.

“Do you remember what happened?” the blond asked him.

Tony gave him a confused look. “When?”

“When you fell asleep, genius,” Clint snorted, “Loki turned Times Square into Candyland, you went after him, he blasted you with knock-out gas or something – ring any bells?”

Tony furrowed his brow in thought, then let out an, “Oh,” when the memories came flooding back. “Uh, yeah, I think so. He was pretty chill about the whole thing.”

“He was after we picked him up, too,” Bruce retold, “Then he said something about ‘making sure you were at your best for battle’. I’m assuming that meant you haven’t been sleeping as much as you’ve said you have.” He and Clint gave him equally frustrated and concerned looks, and Clint even went for the Disappointed Parent look and crossed his arms.

Tony seemed to shrink back into Steve’s arms at the sight of it. He averted his eyes. “Well, I mean…”

Steve slipped his hand over his mouth, stifling his next few excuses easily, and Tony tried to glare at him to no avail. He was tempted to lick his palm, but refrained, considering it wouldn’t do anything anyway.

“So,” Steve spoke for all of them, “Breakfast, yes? We can talk about this later, when all of us are ready. Okay?”

Bruce agreed far more easily than Clint, who just rolled his eyes and swept to his feet. “Carry him so he doesn’t make a break for the ‘shop,” the archer told Steve, exiting the room with all the grandeur of a saint. Bruce shook his head at him before following him out.

Tony, meanwhile, remained gobsmacked at Clint’s blatant betrayal. “Traitor!” he yelled out the still open door once Steve had removed his hand, and grappled at the sheets when he stood, his arms still locked around him in an embrace that would have been cozy if Steve hadn’t been following Clint’s order. “Steve, you ass, I am outraged, this is an outrage–!“

“I love you, too, Tony.”


End file.
